


What We Owe To Each Other

by AlluringMary



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Idiots in Love, Oversexed Nutballs, Reader-Insert, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 10:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16721649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlluringMary/pseuds/AlluringMary
Summary: You had expected Desmond to come barging in your life, fuck you two-three times and move on with his life and re-become the guy behind the bar you’d feel obligated to tip if you ever had the courage to take another step in the nightclub’s direction. However, he had irremediably fucked up your plan for the both of you and taken root in your life and heart.Or, in which you spend six months pining for someone in your bed before they disappear September 1st 2012 and decide you owe yourself some closure.





	What We Owe To Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> THIS SHIT (not counting two or three scenes I cut) IS LIKE 14 PAGES LONG  
> I HAVE NO LIFE
> 
> Also, there just aren't enough Desmond/Reader out there and I've just become obsessed once more with the AC franchise so you know what? I wrote 14 pages of Desmond/reader and another 12 pages of Haytham/reader because I may be failing my classes but I hope one day my kids will discover the AC games and fall in love with MY fanfics.
> 
> This will be my legacy!
> 
> I'll keep the random babble in the end notes from now on. I feel so exposed!

Life with Desmond is not truly what you expected, you don’t share the same apartment but you might as well since he spends most of his nights here with you and your hamster. He hogs the covers, drinks your milk straight from the carton, always leaves the toilet seat up, pays only in cash like your grandfather, laughs obnoxiously at the stupidest jokes on TV and you’ve even caught him once in a staring contest with your hamster but he makes a mean Shirley Temple, goes down on you splendidly and fucks you just the right way that you let most of it slide. There’s even been the occasional ‘I love you’ thrown in there when he’s drunk and panting into your neck whilst you’re jerking him off.

First time it happened, he’d groaned it against your throat and you were left speechless with a warm handful of his sperm before he got off you, rolled over and fell asleep. Second time, he had just got off from work, drunk as a skunk and after eating you out to apologize for coming over unexpected, he’d said it thrice in rapid succession, ‘ _I love you I love you oh I love you_ ’ before emptying himself down your throat in bitter waves of white.

 

And despite his serious demeanor and focused nature, Desmond could be so impulsive – one day you were staying in and binge watching the Friday the Thirteenth series and the next, you two were on his bike, crossing the state line to get to the beach in Jersey. You had missed two days worth of classes and he had used up his off days for the next three months so you could eat ice cream on the shore and what he called ‘sunbathe’ near the water.

It was in June and that particular day marked the third month of the beginning of your relationship – or, as you liked to call it, your thing without strings that clearly had evolved to your more-than-a-thing with the thickest ropes ever conceived by mankind. After you spent half an hour building a sand castle in front of judging middle-aged couples and occasional kid, he’d leaned over your crumbling tower and said, “You know I love you, right?”

You were so startled your drawbridge collapsed under your palm, you blinked owlishly at him and he laughed nasally, snorting into his shirt and in doing so annihilating part of your carefully constructed wall. In a second, he had managed to make your heart tighten into a knot and deflate all at once. There and then you understood the danger of Desmond Smith-Collins and after his apparent joke and you had taken a handful of sand and sent it flying into his chest in reprimand.

 

That aside, you had expected Desmond to come barging in your life, fuck you two-three times and move on with his life and re-become the guy behind the bar you’d feel obligated to tip if you ever had the courage to take another step in the nightclub’s direction. However, he had irremediably fucked up your plan for the both of you and taken root in your life and heart. You had decided, the second you brought him to your studio that you would not see him until next week, then changed your mind to a few days after the subsequent activities left you satiated and blissfully sleepy, then you chose to get his number the next morning because of the way the sun candidly highlighted his strong nose and bounced off the unfairly attractive scar on his lip whilst he laid asleep next to you.

 

You never said anything about the whole _I’m falling in love with you thing_ , _first_ _ly_ because you thought he was drunk and no man meant anything when they were drunk, _second_ _ly_ because you were 100000% convinced he had been kidding that glorious day spent at the beach, _third_ _ly_ because your friends had become his and his friends yours during the months you had been ‘together’ and the last thing you wanted was to make it awkward if he rejected you and _fourth_ _ly_ because you were a fucking coward and afraid to see him turn on his heel and get with the first woman who accosted him at the bar he worked at. You weren’t strong enough to stomach that kind of rejection.

 

You didn’t, however, have much of an occasion to ever tell him about your feelings because after six glorious months of sex, (unbeknownst to you) mutual pining, romantic constipation and idiotic arguments about the superiority of vanilla ice cream and his impact on your schoolwork, he had vanished – poof! – in the dark of the night.

 

Your friends had no missed calls, no texts, nothing. Delilah – a girl who had first introduced you to Desmond after dragging you out of your studio for a night out – had first came to the conclusion he needed some time alone but his bike! – you and four others had pointed out – Desmond loved his motorcycle more than life itself and would have never just left it sitting there at the nightclub. Hours, days went by and you received no new calls, texts and no information. The police was useless, Desmond was a full grown adult and had no family to speak of – your group had left the police station empty-handed and completely disheartened.

You thought of all the places he could have gone, called his phone if only to hear his voice in his per-recorded voice mail, wondered if he went back to wherever he had came from in the first place, if he had even existed and was not just a fragment of your imagination, some kind of being who forced his way into your life to guide you to a higher purpose and leave you high and dry.

 

You knew so little about him; he had mentioned his parents during post-coitus cuddling one early morning, told you about how he grew up in some small community during the chase scene in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and even pulled some insane technique-y skills right out of his ass to catch your runaway hamster when it got out of its cage and into the ventilation staff in the bathroom.

Desmond was not only dangerous (to your poor cowardly heart), he was a stranger you had partially lived with during the last six months. You’d let him see a side of you even you shied away from some days, shared so many intimate moments with him and you couldn’t even be sure if he was even born in this country.

Matt, Desmond’s unofficial best friend and two others had made missing posters. You corrected them on some things – how could they get his height wrong? – and placated them all over your part of the city, on lamp posts, walls, at the train station, your pizza hangout far away from the club he worked at, near your own apartment and you were confronted each and every day you had the strength to power through and go to class with Desmond’s black and white face and his empty printed eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Three more days passed and no sign of life were given, food still tasted like bland mush, the outside world seemed like an endless course of hurdles you could barely make yourself go through, your friends fared a little better and they did their best not to make it seem like you were the downer of the band.

You had to empty Desmond’s apartment since he wasn’t around to pay rent anymore and his landlady was pressing matters. It was clean except for a stray sock here and there, there was a faint smell of cold tobacco and his helmet was peacefully resting on the counter near the door. No apparent sign of struggle, your friend had said under his breath.

You didn’t have a spare key so you couldn’t get in without Desmond but you remembered each time you had visited, it was a whole fucking mess. He often had spoiled fruits on his table in a wasted effort to eat healthy, his weights were always askew on the floor because he liked to exercise and quickly forgot that normal people could trip over those, Hell even his curtains were open to bring in sunlight and God knows he liked the obscurity after the flashing strobelite and loud bass of the nightclub.

 

Something was wrong.

That’s why you insisted to come back later and leave everything untouched, you had another week to clean the place out and perhaps in that time, the police would move its ass, perhaps, you hoped Desmond would re-emerge with a dumb smile on his face and make fun of all of you for worrying about him.

Unsurprisingly, none of this happened but you got a surprise guest in the form of a fifty something year old man knocking at your door right after you had come home from school one early afternoon. You had just stripped off your vest when three firm knocks made you turn right back around.It was the nose, that damned fucking strong nose was all you needed to know who the man was before he even opened up his mouth.

You even cut off his greetings, urgently saying, “You’re Desmond’s father, aren’t you?” His face grew pinched, irked even before he nodded and held up one of your missing posters where your phone number and first name along with two other friends’ had been listed as contacts.

 

“Yes, my name is William Collins, I have already seen Matthew and Anwar. I thought perhaps we could talk?”

You let him in, stepping aside. He was a little shorter than Des, gray hair and a full beard and mustache. He looked around your apartment, very subtly but still visibly taking in your studio and you thanked God you had managed to keep it somewhat clean despite your oncoming mental breakdown.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting visitors. I think I have some tea left if you’d like..”

 

“No, thank you. That’s really nice of you but I’d rather focus on my son for now.”

 

“Right,” And after a moment, where Collins senior had comically sat down in your pear shaped and colored sofa, you added, “Sorry.” You sat down cross legged on the floor, leaning back against your convertible sofa. “What did you want to know?”

 

“Matthew filled me in about Desmond and what he’s been up to since he got to New York, Anwar told me much of the same thing and I’ve already been to--” he hesitated on the name before shaking his head, “the club he worked at. I thought you could enlighten me, after all I think you and my son were in a relationship together.”

That was a good thing you’d ran out of tea and saltines because you would be choking on those if they had been at your disposition. Instead, you felt blood rush to your cheeks and ears and shook your head, “It wasn’t like that, sir. Not… like that.”

 

“That’s not what Matthew said, you two seemed very close in the pictures he showed me.”

 

“Matt’s a rat.” You powered through your embarrassment, “Desmond and I have-- had a thing not… Oh God. It was nothing meant to last.”

 

This incredibly sassy eyebrow had nothing to do on the face of a man you were pretty sure was born right after WWII. “It did last six months, no? Well, tell me about Desmond. I haven’t had the chance to talk to him for a while now.” For nine years to be exact, you almost pointed out.

 

Instead, you went with a plain, “Desmond could be secretive at times but he’d never-- he’d never have left like that. We were close, yes but… he wouldn’t have left without his motorcycle.”

 

“You think something happened to him?”

 

“I do, I talked with An and Delilah about that. We weren’t supposed to meet the night he... disappeared but I know something’s not right. Even his apartment is immaculate and it was always so-- well, messy.”

 

“Do you think you could take me there? Matthew and Anwar were too busy and I’d like to see it.”

 

“Hum, of course,” You automatically answered, as polite as your mama had taught you to be, “but the landlady’s not here today and I don’t have a spare key. Maybe--”

 

“That won’t be a problem.”

 

And it wasn’t; you watched, mortified, as the man picked the lock under half a minute and pushed the door open with his elbow. He looked around and carefully stepped in and after realizing you weren’t following, prompting you to advance with a jerk of his head and a quiet ‘come on’.

 

“Sir, I don’t think we should be here without the landlady!” You hysterically retorted even as you passed the threshold and closed the door behind you.

 

“My son is missing.”Good point. “Did you disrupt anything last time you were here?”

 

“No, I wanted to leave it as it were in case the police decided to do something.”

 

“Good.” He nodded, almost to himself, “Could you stay near the door, I won’t be long.” He didn’t word it like a question but more like a command right before vanishing in the bedroom and you decided that staying put was the wisest decision of them all.

 

“What are you looking for?” You caught yourself asking from your place near the door.

 

His voice traveled from the bathroom, “Anything, really. Did Desmond ever say anything about… I don’t know, anything strange? Suspicious in any way?”

 

“Like I said before, he told me about you and his mother, not much about where he grew up except it was a tight-knit community and well…” You racked your brain for any lost fragments of conversation you could conjure up, anything, “He can-- _could_ be morbid and get into these crazy conspiracy theories at times but,” You shook your head, “Everyone has these thoughts at some point, he never shared a lot about his feelings otherwise. It’s when he went missing that I realized I knew so little about him.”

The father swooped through the living room, “He did say you two didn’t get along much, never told me why though.”

 

“Desmond’s my only child,” He said, as if that justified anything, “We were always too overbearing my wife and I, too insistent and he…He ran away when he was sixteen. I don’t want to worry you or diminish everything you’ve done to find him but that’s how he is. If he found something too hard, too suffocating – he’d just leave. I’m sure you understand.”

 

“He’s lived here for almost seven years, he has a life here. A life he made himself, he wouldn’t up and leave without telling me anything. I know something happened to him!”

 

“You said so yourself,” William retreated outside the apartment and you followed suit, only taking Desmond’s helmet as an afterthought, “It was nothing meant to last.”

Desmond’s father expertly closed the door without a noise whilst you looked down into the helmet’s black visor. “Tell me this, did Desmond have a license?”

 

“He did,” You said, fingers thrumming against the dark gray paint of the helmet, “He was really pissed about that too, didn’t want his fingerprint taken but he hated the subway.”

 

“A bio-metric driving license...” William heavily sighed, and just a glimpse up to his face revealed a tired man, a hand holding his forehead and the other on his hip. You kept a firm hold on Desmond’s helmet, shifting from feet to feet – was all his family just into some kind of cult? Was he a Mormon that never came back to his home? What the Hell had he gotten himself into!?

That would explain why he only paid in cash and didn’t like surveillance cameras or why he could get so paranoid about big corporations and your information on the internet. Oh fuck, you had feelings for a nut job whose name you weren’t even sure was really Smith-Collins.

“Listen,” The man began but there was no way in Hell you were spending one more second alongside him. Was he even Desmond’s father!? – Well they did have the same nose...

 

“I should go.” Was all you said before bypassing the elevator and wrestling open the doors leading to the stairs and hurrying to get to the lobby. You heard William’s voice behind you but he made no move to stop you. You passed the rows of mail boxes at a fast pace, clutching the gray helmet like a lifeline, ignoring the curious looks from the residents you met along the way. You rushed to the subway, fishing your phone out of your pocket to text the boys.

 

_Who the fuck_ _even_ _is Desmond?_

 

The car slowly ground to a halt and you jumped inside hurriedly the second the doors opened wide enough, you made it to two stops before your phone buzzed, it was Matt.

 

_I don’t think anyone knows anymore._ _You met his dad?_

 

_Yeah, creepy_

 

_Sorry about that, he really wanted to talk to you_

 

_You gave him my address???? What if I go missing next!?_

 

_I didn’t? He said he was gonna call you?_

 

_Dude, he was at my fucking door earlier_

 

_Holy shit_

 

 

 

Thankfully, you never did see Des’ father again nor did you spot anyone tailing after you after class or whilst grocery shopping. It was September 8th when something out of the ordinary happened, a woman with dark hair and the greenest eyes came up to you when you were headed to your next lecture and introduced herself as one of Desmond’s friend, her name was Rebecca ‘I can’t disclose my last name to you just yet’ and she said in the steadiest yet most upbeat possible way; “I can help you find your boyfriend.”

 

“But there’s the thing,” She said over her cup of coffee ten minutes after you had ditched classes altogether in favor of some info about him and led her to the cafe a few blocks away, “I think you’ve brought some unwanted attention on yourself by putting up those posters of him. Now people are gonna look into you and your friend group, matter of fact; I already did. And I know you’re too broke to afford the tuition fees for this college and that you’re being sponsored right now.”

 

You took a deliberate slow sip of your piping hot tea to stomach all of this, then you spoke, “Okay so first of all; creepy. Second of all; how the fuck do you know that and why do you care? And third and most relevant point; where the fuck is Desmond?”

 

“It just so happens that you’re being sponsored by the same people who kidnapped him.” The woman continued as if she hadn’t been waiting for your answer for a full minute in the first place, she stirred more sugar in her coffee, ripping the packet open with her blunt unpainted nails, “And that’s my main concern, really. Why are you looking for someone you helped get abducted? Doesn’t make sense. Unless you’re tying to keep undercover.”

 

“You’re saying Abstergo,” You began a little too loudly before lowering your voice, “– fucking Abstergo – kidnapped Desmond? And you think I could be responsible? God, you’re all mental.”

 

“Yeah and I think you’re innocent.” She gnawed at her almond croissant, “Well, there are many more things I could, scratch that, should explain but I don’t have much time left here.” She leaned across the table and it took all of your strength to not reach for your books and bag and leave. “Got a plane to catch but hear me out, you get me in Abstergo’s headquarters today before 2 and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

 

“Tell me where he is first.” You repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, you weren’t going to tag along if she was going to play with you like that, “And tell me why you want to get inside those bureaus, there are actual living people working up there. Are you going to play kamikaze? Wait, don’t answer that.” She didn’t and you waited a moment, caught in between the ever-consuming lack of Des in your life and the creepiness of his entire ‘friend’ and family circle.

Were you going to risk faceless peoples’ lives to know where Desmond – fuck was that even his fucking name – was?

The answer was yes, yes you absolutely would because if there was one thing you had cultivated all your life and that Des had liked about you; that was your unpredictability. He had even said so himself the second time you met.

 

First night you’d met him, you’d been drunk, messily grinding against someone whose gender you weren’t even sure you could ever remember before that person had grabbed something of yours that was lower and more private than expected and you’d whirled around and crushed their nose like a hellion fearing for its life. There was a yell, then a pained grunt as the grabber collided with someone else and then there was a smashed glass, a stool flew in the air and cries rang out loud enough to overpower the music blaring from the speakers. You had stumbled away from the dance floor, almost getting pulled back in the fray by a very neatly manicured hand.

Somehow you had reached the bar and right behind it was the barman, eyeing you warily as he cowered behind the glass he was wiping off. You’d lost your friends somewhere in that mess or perhaps they’d lost you.

 

You must have looked the slightest bit innocent and prey-like or at least afraid enough that Desmond made the fatal mistake to lean towards you and ask you if you were alright. As he got closer, you passingly thought that a thin loop earring would fit right in his left earlobe before your hand was tangled in the front of his shirt and you were pulling him down to your eye-level. The glass he held in his hands fell the second your lips methis and after your drunk self decided that this kiss was less than satisfactory, you had apparently slurred, “I’m gonna hit you so hard, it’ll make your ancestors dizzy.”

 

Then you gave him your best right hook and made a sound similar to that of a quacking duck when he crumpled to the ground with a pained yelp and a long string of curse words. You only remember climbing over the bar to get to the bottles and waking up in bed.

The next morning, you had a giant bruise on your thigh, your phone was missing and your purse was bust – you were scared shitless and swore off any more heavy drinking and total blackout in the future. But that is not the point of the story (your redemption, I mean), it’s Desmond.

You’d met again through Matt – a dim-witted and lazy boy in your 9am world history lecture –two weeks later and whilst his face was something your brain – at the time drowned in vodka and any cheap alcohol that could get you drunk fast – had not bothered to memorize.

His clearly did and he pointed at you when you got inside with Delilah and said, _“You’re the ancestor girl!”_ and when you laughed that off, not getting it, he precised, somehow amused and pointing to a bruise that curled under his left eye, _“You decked me in the face?”_

 

You brought him home to your studio that very night and the morning after, he’d made fun of your complete lack of moral judgment. You’d even kissed his yellowing bruise better and exchanged numbers.

You cherished those stupid moments with him. You decided there and then that you wanted to make more of this kind of memories so you looked right back at Rebecca after a long while and nodded, “I’ll get you in but you tell me everything and if I smell something fishy... I. Am. Out.”

 

“As a friend of mine would say,” Rebecca raised her mostly empty cup and you mimicked her with your own, “Cheers.”

 

* * *

 

 

Nice change of pace, Italy. People with lovely voices who twisted their arms in wide and exaggerated gestures as they talked about the simplest of things. A bustling country with an uncertain future but a rich and glorious past and the tastiest latte macchiato you’d ever drank in your short life. However, you didn’t really have that much time to look around because frankly, there wasn’t much to look at from the back of a worryingly white van.

You’d spent hours gripping at the arms of your commercial flight’s seat, plagued with visions of flight attendants sneaking you poison or preparing to stab you in the neck when they leaned down towards you. You also almost chewed your lips to bits when you were handed your fake but very convincing passport, even felt like crying a little. Rebecca places a reassuring hand on your forearm every two seconds before she falls asleep and snores away. In between mild anxiety attacks as you thought about all the exams you’d miss, your tuition you’d yourself set on fire, the fucking voice in your phone telling you to get the hell out of dodge.

 

God, you should have listened to it.

Now you’re stuck in the back of a van, cooling coffee in hand and the grating English accent of some know-it-all typing away his computer in your ear. Rebecca had unceremoniously condemned you both to the back when you’d fought over shotgun.

 

_I said shotgun, I did!_

 

_She wasn’t on the right side, it doesn’t count!_

 

_You pushed me out of the way, four-eyes!_

 

The ride was long and you felt this same pinprick of fear when you had to stop to pay the motorway fee. Shaun, that fucking _prick_ , didn’t hesitate to use that as a barb, “Not cut out for an assassin lifestyle, are you?”

 

“Shaun, play nice.” Rebecca sung, dragging out the ‘nice’ as she played with the radio. “Niiiiice.”

 

“I can’t believe William’s spawn – of all people – requires this much help.”

 

“I thought he wasn’t trained to be an assassin? That’s why we’re playing Prince Charming and he’s the damsel in distress?” You said, sipping at the cold drink.

 

That got a laugh out of Shaun, who closed his laptop, “Ah! More or less.” He fixes his glasses on his nose, “By the way, great news. He’s just been extracted!”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Contrary to popular belief and the entirety of romantic comedies you’d ever watched, reunions were awkward. Happy, yes but awkward too. For example, you had just gotten to the hangar with Shaun – who was quickly turning from pest to appropriate partner in crime – with groceries after you’d been told via text Desmond, ‘Lucy’ and Rebecca had found the perfect place to settle.

You didn’t have any make-up on, you’d been wearing the same clothes for over thirty-two hours and you had the most awful bags under your eyes – all in all, not a great way to meet up with Des.

 

Indeed, when Desmond first saw you, he didn’t run up and hug you like a lovesick puppy that hadn’t see its owner all day long or shout your name like a madman. He didn’t even smile or ask if you needed help with the bags you were carrying.

No, he was frozen for a moment, blinked a few times, pointed _at_ you before shouting, “How the **fuck** did you get here?”

You had been anticipating your complementary hug and kisses so you’d waited for him to calm down even under all three stares of the occupants of the underground lab. He didn’t get the message and turned to Rebecca, “Why did you drag her into this? It’s dangerous!”

 

“Oh, Desmond for fuck’s sake!” You screamed in indignation, getting his attention back onto you. You dropped the bags at your feet, unconcerned about the contents even when Shaun hissed at your side about the eggs.You walked up to Desmond and when you were close enough to him, you began pushing at his chest until he beganwalking backwards and into another side of the hangar under the low light. You resorted to shoving when he would stop moving and slapping his hand away when he did try to wrap his arms around you to hug you. “No touching, move!”

 

“But-” You passed in front of a wonky bookcaseand you pinched his side until he resumed moving. “You don’t understand!” He complained.

 

“Move, you miscreant!” You talked over him and cowered, he obeyed, still miffed about the three assassins being witnesses to the scene.

 

“Hey now, it’s been a long--”The blond woman he’d come with – Lucy, your brain supplied – tried to talk to you but you shushed her from the other side of the room.

 

“Later!” You threw over your shoulder and Desmond tried to stand his ground, hands coming to rest on your shoulders and forcing you to stay still because of his superior height. “Hey, hey! Come on babe, talk to me.” He used that voice he always used to ground drunken patrons at the bar, soothing yet firm. You hated to admit it right now but it was really fucking hot.

 

“Not here.” You said lowly, pushing a hand to his stomach so he took a step back but still much more softly than earlier. He looked a bit taken aback by the change of tone, but you’d make up for that. Nine days without Desmond had taken a toll on your mind and body and judging by the growing misty look in his eyes, he had felt the same.“Okay? Now, move!”

 

You were far too preoccupied with bullying Desmond into moving that you didn’t notice he was actually taking you to the improvised bedrooms Rebecca and Lucy had set up whilst you were away.

Once you’re far away from the stunned three assassins and the blinding light of the computer screens and in the safe and private obscurity of the divided room, you say,“I can’t believe you! I’ve been worried sick, only to learn you’ve been kidnapped and the first thing you do is--” You tear away his pants and getting the message, his hands find your belt buckle, undoing it as quickly as possible, “--fucking yell at me!?”

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” He says before you toe off your shoes to let your pants drop to the ground, “I was worried they’d hurt you--” He trails off, groaning when your hand slithers in his boxers, “So fucking worried.”

 

He gropes you through your shirt, your nipples growing stiff in his palm. Your bra feel so restrictive all of a sudden – too tight, too constraining. He humps into your hand, warmth spreads in your core when his other hand starts kneading your ass, pinching the skin there. You almost squeal but you sharply remind yourself that’s not so sexy and it’s too late anyway – you’re kissing, quickly and deeply until he gets the upper hand and lowers you to the floor.

 

And just as you were feeling hot to the point of dizziness, arousal raging between the two of you, Desmond claws at your underwear you swiftly slide out of, before he tosses it away. A thousand kisses land on your skin, your stomach, hips, thigh before he spreads your legs and leaning in and – eyes lost in yours – _laps_.

 

You don’t think about your unfortunate company in the hangar, no. Now is about how great it feels to be intimate with Des again, how _big_ his fingers are compared to yours when they dig in the meat of your thighs and bury themselves in you, how precise and talented his tongue is when-- One becomes two and two becomes _three_. The pressure is out of this world, building up quickly and wounding you up. And you’re coming undone, your hands knotted in the rustling fabric of the sleeping bag.

Slowly it passes, Desmond coming to claim your mouth, his chin wet with slick and carrying it into your mouth; the taste of it salty but heady all the same.

 

It's only a matter of freeing his erection; hot, stout and thick in your hand before he’s lifting your leg up onto his shoulder and thrusting in, again and again and again. You curl your other leg around his, wrap your arm around his back and dig your nails in, using your other hand as leverage to push back against him as he rocks forward on his knees. Desmond, in between a curse and low groan, sucks your lower lip into his mouth and holds it there; sharp and tight pain fueling the growing heat inside of you. You drop your hand to urgently scrabble at his hip, pulling him in harder and faster as your body grows taut in anticipation.

 

Once again, you come. You shake, you moan and even cry a little through it with the familiar string of insults and profanity coming from Des.

You try and give a fuck about the lack of protection, you do, you really do.But you don’t exactly register it right away and when it actually hits you after a particularly rough thrust, the heat of your intertwined bodies keep you far too high and your mind too foggy to really focus.

Plus it’s so gratifying and _warm_ when he forgets and comes inside. It’s alright though, you say to him when he apologizes after you share a kiss, you have a day-after pill in your bag.

 

Your happy reunion ends with you both naked and breathing into each others’ necks. You blindly reach for some tissues you have in your jeans’ pockets, his hands go back to your chest, pulling and pinching until you complain before tickling your sides at they leave your skin. A lazy grin here, a sweet peck on the cheek there and you’re both entirely naked and cuddling into your designated sleeping bag.

“I missed you,” You mumble, the hours you’ve spent moving and being stuck in the van with Shaun today finally taking their toll on you, “New York’s empty without you.”

 

“Let me guess, Times Square can’t shine as bright as me?” He responds with a wry smile.

 

“It’s what you do to me,” You say airily and, looking down at his chest, “I missed you so much.”

 

“I missed you too.” He answers, although a little quiet, “I’m sorry you got dragged into this. This whole thing with Abstergo is such a mess. And-- Wait, how the hell are you going to pay for college now?”

 

“Kinda gave up on it,” You can’t laugh at this or at the sudden realization in Desmond’s eyes but you do smile a little, “It’s alright though, at least I guess. I’m basically an initiate now, right? You’d be on your knees in two weeks if I wasn’t here to straighten you out all the time.”

 

He hums, looking up at the ceiling before chuckling, “You think the others heard us?”

 

“I hope so. Shaun’s ass is way too dry to be riding my dick like that all the time.”

 

You spend the next minutes talking in between comfortable silence, snuggling closer when a crisp cool air rolls in. That’s when he says; “Can I ask you something?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer, “You went through all of this… For me. Does that mean… Do you love me?”

 

You’re stuck still now, head not so comfortably laying on his naked chest anymore. You rack your brain for a second too long and he sighs, “Why are you always like this? Get out of your head, I’m right here.”

 

“You go first.”

 

“What?” He asks, indignant, “I asked you first!”

 

“That’s childish!” You retort, sitting up and wrapping your arms around yourself to ward off the cold and not be completely bare in case you were having an argument.

 

“Be the better person then! Answer me!” He follows suit, putting on his boxers whilst you gather your pants and shirt.

 

“You’re the one who’s been declaring your _undying_ love to me in the first place! Why should I say anything?”

 

“You realize you answered your own question right? Because I already told you!” He argues back, staring at you when you go still, having already one leg in your jeans, “You remember our week-end at the beach in Jersey, right? I told you there.”

 

There’s this infinite toll in your head, a spread of sappy and warm feelings bloating your heart, “But… You laughed at me. You even destroyed my wall.”

 

You must both look like two complete idiots, one red in the face in his boxers, the other with half her jeans on and naked form the waist up. He shakes his head, that idiotic grin appearing on his face as he lets out a nervous laugh, “You didn’t answer me, I thought you had rejected me so I laughed it off.”

 

“You only said it when you were drunk… I didn’t think you were serious.” God, you hope he’s not kidding because you’re hopeful. Oh God, you must sound hopeful and pathetic. You need to get a grip. School your fucking features and-- oh! He’s in your space, pushing your jeans away and back onto the cold floor. You reflexively step out of them and cross your arms across your chest, trying to save your dignity.

 

“Well, take it from me; drunk people always the truth and I meant it, I still do. I love you.”

 

“Wow,” You exclaim, losing all feelings in your cheeks as you stare meekly at the ground in between your feet, “Wow!” You squirm after his hands come to rest on your hips, focus on that, on him, “I mean, yes! Well, yes...” You nod, feeling silly a second after doing that, “I love you. I love you…"

You glance up, expecting one of his usual jab but find yourself on the receiving end of a genuine smile. “And I think-- I think this whole saving you thing might actually help our relationship!”

 

He throws his head back, laughing and in that moment, looking up at the curve of his throat and his nasal laugh echoing in the hangar, you think that none of those Templars or assassins or insane conspiracies against him would be able to draw you away from that man. From this very not-so intimate moment you shared here, partially naked and tired after your reunion. This image of you two standing there represents so accurately your relationship that you can’t help but join in as he laughs.

This, you decide, will be a memory you’ll hold onto.

 

You work your arm to wrap around his neck in an effort to bring his lips to yours and when he looks down, he cups your face with both hands and leans down for a kiss.

 

After months of emotional torture, this is what you owe to each other.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wanted to post this in two parts but I was scared I'd end up fussing over it and hating it and never finishing it so here you have it! It feels rushed but I like it!
> 
> I felt like tagging infradead (Diamond Dog on Lunaescence) because of the ancestor line; they had used it in a drabble fic years ago and when I was about to do that, I thought: bitch, they have a life. So I didn't but the idea of a reader punching Desmond and threatening him Mulan-style is all theirs. I thought it'd fit well here and feel almost zero shame adding it because they have deleted the fic from their page along with some other AC works so nope! No shame! nope!
> 
> jk, I am shameful, I really am
> 
> But seriously, if somehow you're still reading this, you should totally check out both their accounts on Luna and AO3. They're very talented and wrote so many AC fics I still love and read from time to time to this day. So go and support them!
> 
> Also the title, can anyone guess where it's from?


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